I warned you that I was going to start blogging again so here I am. Friday night. Feeling kind of disgusted with myself over how disorganized I am, how bad at time management, how messy. If you knew you wouldn’t be my friend anymore. Wait: Are you my friend? Will you be? Gah, I am so needy.
Sometimes I worry that the really earnest people who read me, that they won’t get my sense of humor. But I can’t worry about that, right? < Needy. needy. Right, right? It’s weird because I have this big following (again, barf at the term following) of love and light and namaste people who, when I post the “Don’t be an asshole” videos will say things like: You are not an asshole, Jen. You are human.
Totes. I know this. I know I am not an asshole but I kinda am. We all are kinda assholes, at least sometimes and if you aren’t in on that joke, you are missing the big joke of life. The big joke of life is that we absolutely cannot take ourselves so seriously because we are just not that important. (Cue: Jen, we are so important. We matter.)
We do matter. We are enough. But you know why I tell my yoga peeps not to take themselves seriously, especially at 7 a.m.? Because it is so fucking boring,
It is really boring. Ever hang out with someone who takes themselves really really seriously?
Excuse me while I pour myself a stiff drink because even the thought of that is just. too. much.
Scotch. I am now a scotch drinker because red wine (my beloved) is giving me a rash. I am a yoga teacher who barely practices, who drinks scotch, a writer who can’t type, a woman with no kids of a certain age. Label me. Go ahead. I’m over here laughing though because there ain’t no label big enough to fit me.
Okay, so I am kind of grossed out at my lack of skills. How have I gotten this far as a person in the world? (Answer in comments if you like. I am genuinely curious.)
I am so close to finishing this proposal for Girl Power: You Are Enough and I am sabotaging in every way imaginable.
I got a zit the other day and I went in the bathroom and pulled an old school Jen Pastiloff move. I picked the shit out of it. It bled then I put ProActiv on it that expired in 1999 then I got a scab which I scratched off and it bled again, which left a red scar. I put antibiotic on it lats night and my husband Robert asked me if I was drooling.
“Why is your face shiny?”
“I have Neosporin on my face. I picked it.”
“Stop picking your face.”
Right? I mean, why? I know why.
I’ll tell you why.
1) It gives me something to obsess on.
2) It gives me something to obsess on.
3) It gives me something to obsess on.
4) It gives me something to obsess on.
5) It gives me something to obsess on.
I am so not obsessive.
Okay, a little. A smidge. But, I am not an A type personality, so that’s weird. What am I? Who am I? << God, I am so needy.
Anyway, so now I have a nasty red mark by my mouth and a few others I went to town on and I start looking around going, “God, I am a mess. How do I function? Why don’t I read more? I suck.”
Yes, I know. I call this wallowing in your own suckery. This will be on the affirmation cards I am making to go with my teen book. On what not to do. Don’t be like me, yo. Teens, seriously, do not wallow. It’s so cliché . Also, don’t pick your face. It makes it worse. Don’t create something that wasn’t there to begin with. For the love of scotch. Or whatever teens drink. (What do they drink, nowadays?) As a teen I drank beer and Boon’s Farm and Seagram’s wine coolers and once, everclear. But I passed out then and went temporarily blind so I don’t mention that one.
The point of tonight’s blog? (God, you guys are so needy. Does there need to be a point? Whatever.)
The point is that I am looking for girls. And no, I am not some perverted old man. I want to hear from all you 3 teens that follow my blog. What are some of your struggles? When do you feel enough? Do you feel enough? (For fuck’s sake, you are. You are.)
I am sure your mom does not like me saying fuck. I have to figure out the cursing ratio in my book.
But girls? Don’t be like me. Let me be a cautionary tale. I get close to finishing or success or love or happiness and I…
This time I am not going to let that happen. Wanna know why? Because I am hitting publish and all 3 readers are going to email me and say:
Jen, don’t pick your face.
You don’t suck.
You need to finish this book so stop self-sabotaging.
Scotch is gross.
Jen, stop taking yourself so seriously. Go write. You can’t see where you picked your skin and made it bleed. Get over yourself.
Jen, there’s hummus on your pants.
Jen, call your grandfather.
Okay, this is my brain talking, but dude, it helps to think I’ve got someone out there looking out.
I am going to do this, so fuck off self-sabotage. Just fuck off.
And you know, I am enough. In all my God help me function glory, I am. Because, um, here I am. I am not dead. I am very much alive and kicking. And that is something, my friends. My friend.
Wait: Are we friends????
ps~ I am flying to South Dakota to do a workshop next Thursday then Dallas then Aruba then Tuscany. You can imagine the self-sabotage headed my way, huh? Weeeeeee.